


The Patrician

by GrinningColossus



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Ancient Rome, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Getting Together, Jealousy, M/M, nobleman Hank, servant-turned-apprentice Connor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-06 12:31:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17345279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrinningColossus/pseuds/GrinningColossus
Summary: Patrociniumis the Ancient Roman custom wherein thepatronusandcliens, the patron and the client, form a relationship of mutual benefaction, the client pledging service to the patron, and the patron performing favors for the client.Hank is a waning yet still respected patron, and makes his living pleading cases to the Senate on his clients' behalf. It's during just such a case that he first lays eyes on Connor. Though Connor is only a servant, Hank can sense the potential in him: the potential to learn, the potential to succeed, and perhaps the potential to be...something more.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be the first to admit AUs are not usually my thing, but this idea stuck to me too well for me to ignore. is it 100% self-serving? yup. do I have regrets? nope.
> 
> it's hard to win when you have to import modern names into a historical setting, but I did make an honest attempt at researching alternatives and at historical accuracy in general, so thanks for bearing with me!

The Senate chamber was packed once again, as it had been for the last four days in a row. Hank knew deep in his gut that he was in for another long day of arguing and cock-measuring. Perhaps today was the day he would be able to take the floor for his own cause, the measure he had been sitting on since their agonizing session began. 

Alas, it seemed it wasn’t meant to be. The sun made its way across the stone floor of the chamber and up into the seats, distressing some of the senators as it came into their eyes. Chuckling at their misery was the only reprieve Hank could find from the droning voices at the center of the chamber. Marcus and Elias had been going at it since the morning, some dispute over a large group of war prisoners they both laid claim to. 

Both sides had their supporters, so a particularly contestable statement from either party could result in an eruption of sound from this side of the chamber or that. 

Hank rubbed at his temples, sensing that a headache was inevitable. 

Midday brought with it the blessing of the mealtime hiatus. 

Servants young and old began to flit into the chamber holding platters and goblets, and most of the senators seemed content to eat their meal and talk quietly amongst themselves. It didn’t bother Hank that he was eating alone, and it was a nice change of pace from the shouting and posturing. 

Therefore he was not distracted when one of the servants caught his attention. He couldn’t say why, but once he’d laid his eyes upon the young man he found it very difficult to remove them. 

He was not a child by any means, but he had wide, expressive eyes and a smooth complexion. He balanced trays as if he was born to do it, and when a single piece of fruit rolled off the plate, Hank watched in amazement as the youth bent back in the blink of an eye and caught it, setting it right on the plate with a small smile.

Hank raked his gaze over his dimpled cheek and strong shoulders and tapered waist and the errant brown curl that fell over the boy’s forehead until he realized what he was doing and shook himself out of it. 

If the young man noticed, he was gracious enough to say nothing, and Hank attempted to finish his meal amid the stormcloud of guilty thoughts filling his head. 

The servant did not leave when the session began again, however. He stayed in the chamber and brought the senators wine and water, and something about his presence must have been a good luck charm because just two hours before they were due to close for the day Marcus and Elias resolved their dispute and Hank was finally, finally able to take to the floor with his measure. 

“I am here on behalf of the recently arrested Septimus Quintus,” Hank began, and murmurs broke out within the chamber. He cleared his throat, pointedly not looking at the young servant (apparently the only creature in the room who seemed to cause him any anxiety, for he could stare into the senators’ shrewd eyes without a single jump in his pulse). “Septimus languishes in prison as we speak, and it is my hope that it is not only Septimus, his family, and myself who believe it is a damned thing to allow an innocent man to serve an undeserved sentence.” 

A man stood. It was Faustus,  _ princeps senatus _ , he who presided over them all. He and Hank had known each other for many years. Far too long. 

“Henricus, this is a noble endeavor, as are most of your motions. And, like most of your motions, this one is similarly foolish. This matter is not open for debate. The records have been checked meticulously by multiple hands, hands whose owners reap no reward for the arrest of this man. There is no debate to be had.” 

“With all due respect,” Hank growled, “I do not argue on the basis of the records. I know precisely what they show, and I suspect that the error lies somewhere else.” 

Faustus tilted his chin up, looking down at Hank over his nose. The air in the room was tense; it would not be the first time the senators had witnessed a nasty fight between the two men. 

“So? At whose feet do you lay the blame? Do you have proof?” 

Hank scowled. “There are many ways that--” 

“Do you have  _ proof _ ?” Faustus reiterated, louder. 

He had multiple theories regarding the missing taxes. He had declarations of Septimus’s good character. He had the tears of the man’s wife and children staining his robes. 

He should have anticipated that none of this would have been sufficient for the Senate. 

He caught the edges of whispers in the room.  _ Old man. Drunkard. Confused.  _

Perhaps they were right. 

“The measure is vetoed.”

\----

He was still dwelling on it in the pre-dawn hours, hunched over his writing desk and drunk as a dog. 

At first he thought he hallucinated the noise, a small shuffling near the thick wooden door, the tiniest clink of the lock. When the noise continued, however, Hank sat up straight, trying to shake off his stupor.

It didn’t look like the lock was being tried but the door was certainly moving ever so slightly, and despite the low light there was movement like that of pacing feet across the threshold, and then abruptly a piece of something small and flat was pushed underneath his door, skittering along the paving stones. 

There was the unmistakable sound of retreating footsteps, and when at last all was silent Hank gathered himself and approached the little object on the floor. 

It was a discarded chip of pottery, and someone had written on it in watery but legible ink. 

_ Dyrrhachium. Not taxable in year of Sept. records. _

And at the very bottom, a single letter:  _ -C.  _

The writing was neat and precise despite the low quality of the ink, and Hank could do nothing but stare dumbly at the words until suddenly comprehension dawned on him.

He drew his atlas from the center of a precarious stack of books and flipped through it carefully but quickly, until he reached the map showing the borders of their senatorial provinces. The map on this page was dated one and a half years ago, and the small town of Dyrrhachium clearly lay outside Septimus’s area of responsibility. 

Feeling a quickening of his heart, Hank turned ahead to the more recent pages. The map he examined next had only been drawn four months ago. Dyrrhachium was now within Septimus’s boundaries. 

He retrieved the figures from his notes. The tax season in question had ended just less than six months ago. 

Septimus’s contributions had been run with the assumption that Dyrrhachium’s dues were included, when at that time they were not part of his territory. He hadn’t  _ stolen _ money; the inspectors had simply included an extra town and overshot how much was due. 

Hank couldn’t believe it. Not only had he missed something so simple, but someone out there not only  _ hadn’t _ missed it, but went out of their way to make sure he was aware. 

He stared at the pottery shard, rubbing his thumb gently over the text. 

_ -C.  _

\----

Faustus was almost never impressed, and was reluctant to show it when he was, but as Hank stood there nearly quivering with suppressed excitement he could tell the other man was taken aback to be presented with proof of Septimus’s innocence. 

“Call a vote,” Hank said, jabbing a finger into the paper. “We have to hold quorum immediately.” 

Faustus looked up from the document. “Hank, this is...and so soon.” He ran his hand over his bald head. “Very well.” He beckoned a page over. “Send word to assemble the voting members in four hours’ time. Tell them Henricus has provided compelling evidence for the release of Septimus Decimus.” 

The page scurried away, and Faustus fixed him with a rare smile. “Well done.” 

\----

It was halfway between dusk and dawn and Hank was still awake. He still felt lightheaded from the day’s proceedings; a measure passed among the Senate was not in itself a guarantee of compliance from the government at large, but it was as good as. And for all they said about him behind their hands and in dark corners, he was still a respected figure.

He felt  _ good  _ for the first time in a long time, and so he didn’t understand why sleep was still so far off. 

Eventually he grumbled and rose from the bed, donning a loose robe and heading to the place he always went late at night when sleep eluded him.

(The second place he always went, actually, if he was being honest. The first being, of course, the tavern.)

At this time of night the bath house was sparsely occupied, and he was glad to see that the small chamber reserved for the city’s politicians was completely empty. 

Water dripped and echoed off the stone walls as he disrobed and carefully climbed into the bath. He hissed with satisfaction as the warmth enveloped his body. Though Hank was old and nowhere near his what he was in his youth, he still liked to think he was strong, solid. Regardless, he’d never liked company while bathing, whether it was due more to discomfort with his body or with the idea of having to carry on a conversation, he could never say. 

A beautiful pattern of leaves and fruit wound its way through the room. There were benches and towels and six sturdy pillars reaching towards the ceiling, which was painted a deep blue with a bright array of stars. 

Hank sighed and tilted his head back, eyes losing focus on the stars amid the hot steam roiling up from the bathwater. 

A door opened, startling him out of his daydream. 

From out of the servants’ entrance on the other side of the chamber stepped an anxious-looking young man, brows drawn up tight as he made eye contact with Hank. 

He realized with a jolt that it was the same young man he’d been staring at in the chamber the other day. Perhaps subconsciously Hank found himself sinking down into the water, attempting to hide himself from view. 

“Can I help you?” he spat gruffly, and the young man flinched as Hank’s gravelly voice bounced off the stone walls. 

“I’m sorry to bother you,  _ domine _ ,” the man said, stepping into full view. He wore a more revealing robe than before; it was summer, after all, and presumably he was not at anyone’s call at this time of night. Hank got an eyeful of long, lean legs, firm shoulders, skin dotted with tiny freckles, and the hint of a pink nipple behind the folds of cloth at his chest. His voice was deep, pleasant. “I wanted to...talk. To you.”

Hank’s eyebrow shot up. “And you thought this was the most appropriate place to do so?”

The man stepped even closer, now standing just at the edge of the water. He didn’t seem put off by Hank’s tone. “I don’t have a great deal of choice in my schedule,  _ domine _ . This was the perfect opportunity to speak to you, so I took it. Will you allow me to speak?”

Crossing his arms, Hank looked him up and down. He meant for it to be intimidating, to make the boy feel foolish and small, but all it accomplished was to remind Hank how beautiful he was. Hank had years, decades on this boy. He had rank on him. And yet…

“Seems like you’re already speaking.” He waved a hand lazily. “Go on, then.” 

The boy nodded and sat down on the tiles, stretching his bare legs into the hot water. “They call me Cornelius, but my name is Connor.” 

_ Connor _ .

“Not from here, I take it?”

Connor shook his head. “I’ve been in Rome since I was a very young child, but I’m from the north, near Britannia.”

“And you’ve been a servant all that time?”

“Yes.” Connor’s nose wrinkled. “I thought I was working towards my freedom. That’s what they told me: put in the years and we’ll set you free.” He laughed humorlessly. “That was...twenty years ago now?”

“Ah. I’m, uh, sorry to hear that.” 

“Not as sorry as I am.” Connor fixed his deep brown eyes on Hank. His jawline was flawless, lips plush, and yet underneath it all Hank could tell that he was whip-smart and tensed like a runner on the starting mark, just waiting for someone to give him the signal. 

“I wanted to know how the vote went today,” Connor continued. 

“Oh?”   


“Regarding Septimus Decimus.” 

“I’m surprised you remember that, given how briefly I was able to talk about it.”

“Of course I remember,” Connor replied, frowning. “It’s a fascinating case.”

“Well, uh, we took the vote today and the motion passed unanimously that he should be freed.” 

This seemed to cheer Connor up considerably. He beamed. “I’m glad to know it was resolved.” 

There was something in the way Connor looked at him. At first it made Hank’s skin tingle like a parade of ants was marching over his body, but then his sluggish brain caught up. 

“Are you…” he started, then cleared his throat and tried again. “I didn’t do it by myself. I got a little help, someone whose name starts with C. I don’t suppose…?”

Connor’s grin turned sly, a corner of his mouth rising higher than the other. “Yes, that was me. I really must apologize for intruding on you  _ twice _ , though I'm glad to hear I was of help .” 

“Intruding?” Hank barked incredulously. “I may never have accomplished anything if you hadn’t helped. Consider yourself more than forgiven.” 

Connor ducked his head. His fingers worked at the stone next to his thighs, as if it was impossible to keep still. When his eyes rose to meet Hank’s again, the older man felt like the breath had been punched out of him, the sight of this pretty young thing within the steam, sweat beginning to bead noticeably on his body. 

At that moment, however, Connor seemed to remember something. “I’m sorry, I really need to go now. I’ll be expected soon.” 

Modesty forgotten, Hank waded over to where Connor sat and thrust out his hand. “It was good to meet you, Connor, and thank you again for your help.” 

After a moment’s hesitation, Connor reached out to grasp Hank’s hand, and they shook. 

“My name is Henricus Andricus. You can call me Hank.” 

“Hank,” Connor repeated, beaming. He stood up to go and was almost at the door when Hank called out again. 

“Oh, and Connor? You are absolutely wasted as a servant.” 

He just managed to catch sight of a cheeky grin as Connor left, shutting the door quietly behind him. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for brief alcoholic behavior. Mild content warning for vague discussions about the deaths in Hank's family.

“Are you certain that is the one you want?”

The woman at the ledger had eyes that bore straight through a man and a frown deeper than the ocean’s depths, but Hank mustered his courage and met her gaze.

“I’m absolutely certain.”

She sniffed and made a note, something indecipherable from upside down. “It is agreed, then.” Hank plopped the small pouch of _aurei_ into her waiting palm and stood by awkwardly while she counted them. Eventually she nodded, tucking the pouch away. “I am curious. Was there any particular reason you chose Cornelius?”

“Not...particularly,” he stuttered. Across the room he could just barely see Connor tucked into the corner amid a few other boys and young men, apparently involved in some kind of game and completely oblivious to Hank’s presence.

“Although I make it a point not to form any deep attachment with my servants,” Amarada said lightly, “I admit Cornelius has been a personal favorite of mine since he arrived here. Always eager to please, that one. Even when the task at hand is unpleasant or dull, he never fails to put his entire self into it.” Hank cocked his head. As if fatigued from dealing with a particularly slow mule, Amaranda sighed. “So if I find out that he’s mucking out stables or warming someone’s bed”--and she pointedly stared right through Hank as she said it--“I will not be pleased.”

“No, of course not.” Hopefully she couldn’t see the flush he could feel creeping up his neck. “I met him in the senate chamber, and he seems to have a good sense about him for the law, for doing what’s right.”

For the first time, Amaranda’s face broke into a smile. “I know precisely what you mean.”

Gathering her glittering robes about her, the woman stood from her desk and cut through the room as if it were not packed end to end with rowdy male servants. At this distance Hank couldn’t hear what she said to Connor, but then the boy looked up sharply, took in the sight of Hank standing there. He looked back and forth between Amaranda and Hank, and finally hopped to his feet to follow her.

Those big brown eyes looked at him almost in wonder as Connor approached, and Hank found he couldn’t say much of anything as Amaranda explained to him that he was going to live with Hank, that his freedom had been purchased, that he was _cliens_ of a sort and Hank was his _patronus_.

Thankfully Connor seemed similarly at a loss for words as his meagre few belongings were shoved into his arms and he was escorted out the door with Hank. The last thing he did was embrace Amaranda tightly, the woman murmuring something to him in turn.

Hank chuckled.

_Doesn’t form deep attachments, my foot_.

\----

The settling in was awkward, and Hank was by no means prepared for just how awkward.

He’d never had anyone at his home before, not since…

Not for many years. And he’d forgotten what it was like to keep the thread of conversation going, especially when it was with someone who didn’t seem inclined to talk much.

Connor sat on the small cot in what was to be his room, absently stroking a hand over the blanket. Hank came in and out, offering him food, drink, and increasingly ridiculous objects in the chance that he might want them. What Connor declined he did with a gentle “No thank you, _domine_ ”, and what he accepted he did with a gracious bow of his head and “Thank you, _domine_ ”.

“Forget about that,” Hank growled after what seemed like the fiftieth time. “Please just call me Hank.” He looked down at the severely chipped bowl he was just about to offer Connor, realized that he may have been somewhat hysterical, and tossed it gracelessly into the room behind him, intending for it to land on a nearby chair.

There was the sound of clay shattering. Hank winced.

“I’m sorry, Hank.” Connor folded his busy hands in his lap and looked up at Hank. “I suppose I’m still adjusting to this change.”

“I...yeah, I understand.” Running a hand through his grey hair, Hank exhaled heavily. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done any hosting, myself. We’ll both need to do some adjusting.”

Connor chewed his lip, gaze faraway. “Why did you do this for me?”

“...what?”

“What I mean to say is, what made you decide this? Why me?”

Rubbing the back of his head, Hank exhaled. “It’s because you’re smart, Connor. Too smart to be serving people drinks for the rest of your life.”

It didn’t quite seem to be the answer he was looking for, and Hank was at a bit of a loss. When it became clear the younger man wasn’t going to carry that particular conversation further, Hank cleared his throat.   
  
“I think we should go out tomorrow and get you something new to wear.”

Connor’s tunic was obviously well cared for: there were stitch lines from repaired tears, very few frayed threads, and and overall lack of dirt. It was also obviously very old and not originally meant for Connor, the way the seam at the hip didn’t lay quite right, the collar askew. Hand-me-downs, clearly.

“It’s not personal, kid,” he rushed to explain as Connor’s cheeks darkened. “Just don’t want you following me around looking like a servant.”

“So what am I, then? What do you intend to do with me?”

Flinching a bit at the choice of words, Hank replied, “I suppose you’ll be like...my apprentice? I need someone with their wits about them to check my work; I ain’t what I used to be. And I suppose it’d be nice to pass on what I know.”

“How to be a _patronus_ , you mean?”

Hank nodded. “Gods, I never even asked...is that something you even want?”

Connor blinked at him, eyes wide. “Something I want?”

“Yes? I mean, are you interested at all in learning the trade?" Suddenly he found himself babbling. "If not, I could help you do something else; I can have you train at one of the _scholae_. Or you could leave, if you truly wanted. You're a free man, and--” 

“Hank.” Connor stood and held out a hand, almost as if he intended to touch Hank but decided against it at the last second. “Nothing would please me more than to learn from you. I’m just not used to having a choice.”

It was Hank’s turn to flush red. “Oh. Well. That’s good.”

Even after they had settled down for the evening, and he could hear Connor rolling this way and that on the unfamiliar bed in the adjoining room, Hank couldn’t get the words out of his head.

_I’m not used to having a choice._

\----

The market was active and lively, particularly as it was nearing the lunch hour and all manner of folk were securing their meal for the afternoon at the various stalls and carts. Connor was at Hank’s side and fidgeting more than usual, wearing a tunic borrowed from Hank that was much nicer than his previous clothing but equally ill-suited.

Earlier in the day (but not much earlier; when Hank had nowhere to be he always took the liberty of having a good lie-in) he had all but shoved the cloth into Connor’s hands, then watched the young man deftly folded it and drape it about himself. Hank’s belts would have been absurdly large, so he relented and allowed Connor to wear his old one for the time being. The light blue linen draped over the cinch at his waist well enough to hide it, anyway.

It was practically falling off the boy’s shoulders even then, and Hank, in an effort to divert his eyes from Connor’s freckled skin, insisted on pinning it up at the breast with an old _fibula_.

While Connor had handled the fabric like a professional (laundry duty, perhaps?), the _fibula_ was entirely new to him, and it took some time for him to stop fiddling with it in fascination. It was shaped like a big hound with two sharp ears pointed straight up, and finished in gold. It was almost certainly not made solidly of gold, a fact which hardly put a dent in Connor’s obsession with the thing.  

The eyes of the crowd at the market had an effect on Connor, and the restless tugging at his clothing only increased as they waded into the mess.

When at last they reached a clothing vendor, Hank got the old woman’s attention and she immediately rushed Connor into the back to mark his measurements. It left Hank at the front, surrounded by fabrics: linen, leather, even a few bolts of damask, which he was very careful not to touch. The old woman’s husband was fast asleep in his chair and didn’t seem to notice Hank was there at all. Hopefully she wasn’t counting on him to keep thieves at bay.

Some time passed before Connor came back out. He was smiling and chatting happily with the seamstress, who by all accounts seemed very charmed by him. Hank didn’t blame her.

“Pick something out, my dear,” she was saying, gesturing to the rainbow of fabrics around them. “I can have them finished in no time at all.”

“Surely you have more pressing work?” Connor demurred, nevertheless allowing his eyes to rove over the wares.

The old woman laughed deep. “You have simple measurements, my boy. It’s no trouble.”

_Flatterer_ , Hank thought. He looked to Connor. “Have you decided?”

“I…” His nimble fingers drifted across a fold of rich blue linen.

“That one?”

Connor jerked his hand back. “No, that’s far too much.”

The fabric itself wasn’t exorbitantly luxurious, but the depth and coverage of the dye were of expert quality. “It’s not. If that’s what you’d like, you can have it.”

Hank authorized the woman to make Connor an everyday tunic of the blue fabric, as well as a sash and a white toga for formal occasions. Connor would certainly cut an impressive figure in white with a slash of blue, but Hank kept that thought to himself.

Hank let Connor count out the coins, wanting to see how well the kid could handle the mathematics of currency, and was suitably impressed when the transaction concluded without issue.

It would be a day before the new clothing was ready, so the two men walked slowly back to Hank’s home, eating a warm pancake apiece as they went.

Although the experience seemed to have embarrassed Connor, he was also considerably more cheery as they entered through the door and removed their sandals.

“Thank you, Hank,” he said earnestly, and Hank waved him off.

“It was something you needed. No need to thank me.”

The look in Connor’s eyes was enough for Hank to know that, in this instance, he had no intention of doing what he was told.

\----

The next few days saw them slowly growing used to being in one another’s space. For Hank, it was startling every time he saw Connor; out of sight, out of mind, apparently, because his mind would forget that someone else was in the house. Many more items of pottery fell casualty to his forgetfulness.

For Connor, he realized he was allowed to breathe, to take up room, to say what he was thinking. Sharing cramped quarters with dirty boys and grizzled men as long as he had, the experience of sleeping in a bed alone, of taking a walk for the sake of taking a walk, of being able to lay out his things without fear of them being pilfered...it had the same effect on him as sunlight to a sheltered plant.

They sat by Hank’s desk, myriad sheafs of paper strewn across the surface as well as on his bed, as Hank read carefully from one of his ledgers of years past.

_“Isolda Juventas, tenth day of September_ . Isolda is a bit of a legend in these parts. Old as the hills, weathered as a stone. Very unpleasant woman. In her age she needs a great deal of help dealing with official matters, but she’ll always make up an excuse. It isn’t because she’s old, it’s because she’s under the weather, or she’s having her grandchildren over. Always something like that. Her claims are always petty, but she pays well.” Hank scanned the page lower. “Ah, here she is again. _Isolda Juventas, fifteenth day of September_. Unlucky day, that one. This was the day I nearly had my neck wrung by her neighbor.”

“And why was that?” Connor asked, barely containing laughter behind his hand.

“Gods, I don’t even remember. Some absurd claim about his chickens damaging her flowers.”

“Ah.”

“The point is,” he continued, shutting the ledger with a _snap_ , “over the years I’ve developed a pretty diverse group of _cliens_. At times you’ll have to wrangle with Isolda Juventas and her unfailing gift for always having something to complain about. Other times, a man’s life will rest on your shoulders.”

Sobered up, Connor leaned forward. “Like Septimus”

“Yes.”

Connor shook his head. “I suppose I don’t fully understand.” In his fingers he rolled a single silver _aureas_. It seemed to help him focus some of his restless energy. Hank wasn’t sure exactly when he’d picked the coin up, and when he’d become self-conscious about it Hank made a gruff joke about his dexterity that Connor took as the compliment it was intended to be. Since then he had played with it freely, and the subtle articulations of his long fingers as he passed the coin along his knuckles was enough to make Hank sweat.

“Some of these _cliens_ pay you,” Connor was saying, “and some of them don’t. In those instances, what do you get in return?”

“There are a lot of ways to get ahead, Connor. Wealth is important, of course; money oils the gears of business in a way that nothing else can. But your reputation is just as important. Some people don’t pay because what they give instead is plenty worthwhile. That could be items, gifts. It could be glowing recommendations that open six more doors to you. A good word around the city.

“People need to know they can trust you. It’s important to build your own reputation as a _patronus_ who makes good on what they say they’ll do. Be willing to give people a chance, even if they don’t have a coin to their name. Do what you feel is right, and fate will bring it back to you. That’s how I feel, at any rate.”

Connor’s mouth had fallen open slightly as he listened, but he shut it quickly when Hank caught his gaze.

“That’s....good advice. Thank you, Hank.”

“Don’t thank me,” he shot back, more out of habit these days than anything.

\----

In the morning, Hank rolled over and blinked until the mist was gone from his eyes.

There on his bedside table sat a tray with a handful of carefully sliced figs.

He always had a craving for figs in the morning, and had talked Connor’s ear off on at least three different occasions about how grand it was that figs were in season.

Motion in the doorway caught his eye, and he looked up to see Connor peering in. He caught Hank’s eye, and when he saw that Hank already had a slice of fruit in his hands, he smiled, dimples deep and rosy, and ducked back out of sight.

\----

It began to storm towards the afternoon, and Hank decided to refresh himself on a _cliens_ he was to be seeing the next day. He intended to bring Connor with him and hopefully facilitate some introductions.

He frowned when he couldn’t find the book he needed. He swore he’d stuffed it between the red and brown tomes.

“Connor,” he called, and the word had barely left his mouth when the youth appeared.

“Yes, Hank?”

“Do you know where the ledger for Junius is?”

“In between Maius and Quintilis, Hank,” he replied in a tone of voice Hank had been hearing more often now that Connor was opening up. It was the kind of voice that said, ‘I am going to state something factual with no inflection but it will be very obvious that I’m calling you an idiot.’

“That’s not where I left it,” Hank replied dumbly.

“That’s where it _belongs_.”

Hank grumbled, but when the time came to put the ledger back, he placed it carefully in between Maius and Quintilis...where it belongs.

\----

On a beautiful mid-summer afternoon, the two of them took to the countryside roads to get some sunlight. Connor had been incessantly taking notes, asking for anecdotes, and practicing mathematics (which was by no means a requirement, as far as Hank was concerned, but he did seem to _like_ mathematics. Bizarre, but not a sin). They hadn’t seen much of the outdoors.

The bright sunlight glinted off the hound _fibula_ at Connor’s breast. Hank had encouraged him to keep it even when his own clothes arrived, and Connor barely protested. Hank was glad to see it put to use; it was a gift from a long ago friend that he’d never managed to put into proper rotation with the rest.

They stopped at a chest-high wooden fence, erected by a farmer to keep his cattle from venturing onto the busy road. A few cattle grazed nearby and Connor was eager to see them, trying in vain to get their attention.

Hank chuckled as the animals absolutely refused to pay them any attention despite Connor’s waving arms and shouted greetings.

“I’ve worked in the city most of my life,” he told Hank somewhat breathlessly, having given up on the cows. “I can’t help myself when I do happen to see animals.”

“You don’t say.”

Connor smiled, nudging him with his elbow.

They watched the cattle for a few moments in companionable silence.

“Say, Hank,” Connor started. His fingers went _ratta-tat-tat_ on the fencepost. “When I was being fitted for my clothes, the woman, her name is Theodora, she mentioned something that I admit I’ve been curious about.”

Hank could already feel the walls starting to come down and he didn’t even know what Connor was going to say. It could be anything, he tried to convince himself. “Oh?”

“I don’t want to pry, of course, but she said you’d had some troubled times not that long ago. I just--”

Of course. Hank didn’t even know Theodora that well, apart from mutual reputation and an item of clothing purchased here and there, but of course she knew. Everyone knew. Hank was still respected enough to get work but everyone knew he was truly only a shadow of what he once was, because of.

Because.   
  
“Stop,” he interrupted, more harshly than he intended. “I know what you’re going to ask and I have no desire to talk about it. Ever.”

Connor’s shoulders slumped, and Hank knew immediately that he’d shattered something.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. But I do understand what it’s like, and I wanted you to know that you can talk to me, if you need to.”

Hank knew he was spiralling. He could feel the bile rising in his throat and the winding, twisted feeling working its way up his gut. His temper was about to get the best of him, even though the rational voice inside of him was giving its all to keep it tampered down. “My past is none of your business,” he growled, turning away from Connor. “And don’t believe for a moment that you could possibly _understand._ ”

He was striding back up the path towards the city before he could think twice.

“Hank, wait!” Connor called, jogging to catch up with him.

Hank ignored him.

“Hank, please!” the boy tried again.

He didn’t say a single word to Connor, and when they reached the house he went without hesitation into the chest of spirits and retrieved two sloshing bottles of _mulsum_ before taking to his room. He left Connor standing in the kitchen.

He expected the boy to continue to needle him, and was both relieved and disappointed when he heard footsteps exiting the house.

\----

It was dark when Hank woke up. His stomach churned and his head throbbed, but these were minor inconveniences for the experienced alcoholic.

He was starving, however, and dared to creep into the kitchen to see if he could quietly find something to eat. He discerned it was the middle of the night, closer to dawn than to dusk, and was therefore shocked to find Connor sitting on a stool in the kitchen.

His brown eyes were lucid but obviously tired, and he startled when Hank came into the room. The silver coin danced among his fingers and threw a glint of the candlelight as it moved, stopping only for a second when Hank entered.

Without a word he hopped off the stool and, at no prompting, fetched Hank a glass of water.

Hank took it, staring into Connor’s eyes and feeling guiltier by the moment.

Eventually Connor broke the quiet. “I am sorry, Hank.”

“No,” Hank croaked. “You don’t have to apologize.”

Connor cocked his head, not unlike an intrigued dog. “I’m not to thank you, and now I’m not to apologize either?” He smiled, but it was bitter. “I think it would be best, Hank, if you accepted the fact that some people appreciate and care about you.”

“I…”

He’d barely started when Connor held up a hand. “You were right, it’s not my business. But I did mean what I said: you are always welcome to talk to me. I regularly request your opinion and your advice, after all, and I would be a very poor friend indeed if I did not return the favor.”

_Friend?_

Connor laid a hand on Hank’s arm. The hand was soft, and Hank was suddenly aware of how rough his own skin was in comparison, covered as it was by short grey hairs and old scars.

“I may not understand exactly, but I do know loss of that kind. Many years ago, when I was only a child, I lost my brother. He was the only family I had left. He joined the army, and he never came back.”

Connor’s nostrils flared but his eyes were dry. He’d had more years than Hank had so far to wrestle with the pain.

“I’m sorry,” Hank said earnestly. “I’m sorry, Connor. Some days are more difficult than others, and when I’m not prepared to think about it, I lose my head. But I can’t hide and drink whenever I’m reminded of them.”

“I can’t imagine it’s what they would have wanted,” Connor agreed, and his thumb stroked Hank’s forearm gently, soothingly.

“I can’t guarantee it won’t ever happen again. I know myself too well to make that promise.” He sucked in a breath. “But for what it’s worth I appreciate the offer. If I’m ever ready to talk about it, I can’t think of anyone else I would come to.”

Connor practically beamed, and without thinking Hank put his hand over Connor’s where it rested on his arm. His fingers passed over the delicate underside of Connor’s wrist, and he swore he could feel the pulse jump.

After a moment he reluctantly removed it, and Connor’s hand fell away as well.

“Good night, Hank.”

“Good night, Connor.”

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hank: "'I'll never drink again', I said. You know, like a liar."
> 
> Connor: "'I'm a small instrument with many strings', I said. You know, like a lyre." 
> 
> Hank: [whispers] "How dare you."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll, I didn't intend for this chapter to take so long, it's just that I came down with a serious case of FLSD (Feeling Like Shit Disease). I'm glad to be back, though, because I've really been looking forward to writing this chapter!
> 
> Content warning for brief non-con elements ahead.

\----

“What’s that?” Hank pointed at the small slip of paper Connor clutched as he entered the dim study.

“It seems to be an invitation,” Connor explained, handing it over.

Stretching his arms over his head and trying to refocus his eyes, Hank reached for it and scanned the page, pleased to find his eyes had not permanently crossed themselves after staring at his books all afternoon.

“‘...request your presence at the summer home of Sen. Ricus Philandrus at the 8th hour of’...blah blah blah.” Hank scoffed, tossing the paper aside. “Won’t that be a joyous occasion?”

Connor leant back against the doorway, watching Hank intently from the corner of his eyes and pretending to be doing nothing of the sort. “And do you intend to go?”

“Philandrus is a sour bastard, and I say that as a professional sour bastard myself. He’s cutthroat, the type to tell you anything you want to hear so long as it gets him what he wants. I can feel my blood turn black whenever he’s in the room.” Connor raised his eyebrows. “So, no.”

His eyebrows furrowed.

“But Hank, I told the messenger to expect you.”

Hank whirled around in his seat. Connor was examining his hand, fascinated with his fingernails. “I’m sorry, you did what?”  
  
“I told him to expect both of us, actually,” he replied casually.

“...and why in the gods’ names would you do that?”

“Because it will be a wonderful opportunity for you and I both to meet potential _cliens_.”

“What if I told you that I’m not going to go? That I’m not going to do it?”

“That would be a shame.”

They glared at one another, Connor squaring his jaw, Hank wrinkling his nose, and after a tense minute or two Hank threw up his hands. “Fine! But only because I can’t go back on my word, not after you told them I’d show up.”

“Yes Hank,” Connor said demurely, wearing the most self-satisfied smirk Hank had ever seen.

\----

Hank remembered his _toga_ fitting a little looser the last time he’d worn it, but it would have to do for now. He’d gone out to the taverns, to plays, to the arena, those sorts of venues, plenty of times with friends and _cliens_ alike, but Philandrus’s affair was going to be a far more fussy thing. There would be fine meats and wine, both of which were fine with him, but there would also be fake interest, forced laughter, empty platitudes.

He’d long given up on formal gatherings of that nature, and here he was, about to enter into battle again, because of Connor.

For Connor, perhaps? Because he’d been right about it being a good opportunity to meet people?

There was something about that Hank didn’t like. It tasted bad on his tongue, the thoughts of Connor, whom he’d had almost entirely to himself for the past few weeks, surrounded on all sides by sneering patricians and glittering predators.

What if they didn’t like him, and no one showed interested in having Connor as their representative?

What if they _did_ like him, and Connor left--

That thread of thought was no good, he decided abruptly, trying to physically shake the foreboding off.

Luckily Connor chose that moment to bound into the room.

He looked stately and yet still boyish in his fresh new _toga_. The blue fabric draped from his shoulder to hip contrasted well with his complexion, the warm tones of his skin, hair, and eyes. Of course, the hound _fibula_ was fastened at his breast as it always was. He wore a pair of comfortably worn but sturdy sandals, which was a novel sight in itself as he seemed to prefer going about the villa barefoot.

“Oh, Hank,” he gasped. “Don’t you clean up well?”

Hank flushed, plucking at one of the stray hairs that hadn’t made it into his sloppy bun. “To you, maybe. Philandrus’s flock will just see a tired old man.”

He hadn’t meant to make his self-consciousness so apparent, but Connor had a way about him of forcing one to spit all kinds of secrets with nothing more than a flutter of his lashes.

“I agree, there’s something not quite right here.” Connor reached out and grasped at one side of Hank’s sash, colored ruby red, and adjusted it in place until he was satisfied. He backed away, nodding. “I’m happy to say that did the trick--you’re back to being spry and handsome as ever.”

Hank rolled his eyes. “And you’re as good a liar as ever, Con. You’re going to fit right in at Philandrus’s.”

Chewing at his lip, Connor fiddled with a brush on the nearby table, stroking over the bristles with a single fingertip. “Do you think I will fit in?”

The evening was going to be hell if they were both this nervous. “I think they’re going to love you,” Hank said, squeezing Connor’s arm reassuringly. “You already have quite a reputation, you know.”

Connor’s head jerked up. “Really?”

Hank had friends high and low in the city, and he’d heard plenty. “Oh yes. Some of it’s very salacious, mind you, but the more respectable word is that you’re a promising apprentice.” He very delicately skipped over the _salacious_ gossip; it involved a lot of unflattering rumors about Hank’s preferences. He could only laugh, because anyone with that kind of opinion clearly didn’t realize Connor looked much younger than he was, that Hank was not the type to purchase youths for the purpose of sexual gratification, and that if anyone was torturing anyone, it was Connor torturing Hank.

Case in point: Connor beamed at the praise and tugged excitedly on Hank’s arm. “I don’t want to waste a moment, then. Let’s go,” he said, practically dragging Hank out the door.

\----

The only redeeming thing about the party so far, in Hank’s opinion, was the ever-flowing wine. Philandrus was a tart old fool, but he knew how to stock his cellar.

Servants in clean loincloths and beautiful courtesans in jewels and silks flitted about the rooms of Philandrus’s villa in equal quantities, filling cups and satiating hunger of all sorts. A group of musicians played in the main room those who were not lounging on expensive furniture were dancing to the lively rhythm of drums and strings.

“Occupation is the only rational choice,” spoke the man on Hank’s left, a heavyset Roman with silver hair befitting of his age. Hank didn’t know the man’s name (had, in fact, been told and forgotten it in the span of seconds).

The man on his right tutted. “A tiny village like that is not up to the task of filling the bellies of an entire unit. They would be best off to continue until they reach the army encampment just a few days’ south of the delta.” This man was short but thin, a Greek expatriate named Epiphanes. Hank had stepped in to clear away some remaining bits of...trouble...that had followed the man from Greece, many years back.

“Ha! And you think the Legate will welcome them with open arms? The unit that could not even arrive on time to the fight? Legate Pantaleon lost nearly half his own men in that battle--”

“Again, brother, you do not listen to me before you interrupt,” the Greek cut back in.

The two went back and forth while Hank focused on his cup, and in short order he found it empty once again.

Just as he’d spotted a servant across the room, the men turned to him.

“Henricus, what are your thoughts on this matter?”

“Not the village,” he answered distractedly. “Their crops will be flooded by the time they arrive; they won’t have any resources to spare. Better to reach the army camp.” He grumbled. “I apologize, friends, but I must refill my cup.”

The men laughed as he went, but Hank turned his gaze to the room at large, looking for the servant he’d seen.

Instead, he saw Connor.

The boy had excused himself to find something to eat, and that had to have been at least an hour ago. It felt odd being without him. He supposed he’d grown used to him, for better or worse.

It was good to know he was alright, at least. He was sat on one of the plush couches against the wall, and surrounded by courtesans.

Hank chuckled. Made sense.

“Having fun?” he said loudly as he approached, and Connor jumped.

“Oh, Hank! Yes, I, er…”

A gorgeous blonde woman in a jeweled white gown sat next to him and was toying with the loose sleeve of his _toga_. Another was lounging on a cushion on the floor, looking up at Connor with a wry smile.

Hank hadn’t thought a person’s face could be that red.

“ _Puellae,_  may I please borrow my associate?”

The women giggled at him. “Of course you may,” said the blonde, rising from her seat and beckoning to her friend. A third woman that Hank hadn’t even seen was suddenly at his side, tugging on his arm.

“Why don’t you stay, _domine_?” she implored. “We would love to have the pleasure of your company.”

“He should stay, too,” the second woman chuckled, pointing to Connor.

The third woman traced her finger up the sensitive skin of Hank’s inner elbow and he shivered despite himself, breaking out into gooseflesh.

Connor abruptly stood up. “It’s been lovely,” he said, a touch aggressively. “But I must meet with my mentor. Please excuse us.”

Hank lightly shook off the woman’s grasp and followed after Connor, who was walking quickly through the crowd and into one of the adjacent rooms.

This room was much quieter than the main hall but there were still guests present, eating and talking, so Hank pitched his voice appropriately.

“Connor,” he hissed. “Stop, just wait…!”

Connor halted immediately and turned to face Hank, looking sheepish. “I’m sorry, Hank. If you wanted to stay with them you can, I didn’t mean to pull you away like that. I admit I was feeling a little...uncomfortable.”

Hank raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I don’t know!” he huffed. “It was embarrassing to be the center of attention but I could bear that, at least. But when _you_ came and they swarmed on you…”

Crossing his arms, Hank leaned his weight against a nearby column. “First of all, Connor, they’re courtesans, it’s literally their job. They’re supposed to flirt and liven the place up. ‘Swarming’ is a bit much. There’s nothing to be scared of--they’re women, and most of them, at least the ones I’ve met, are kind, not to mention talented as all hell.”

Connor fidgeted. Hank had advised that he should probably leave his coin at home, and it was clearly killing him not to have somewhere to divert his restless energy.

“I _know_ that, Hank. I know they’re just nice girls. And I’m not _scared_ of them.”

“So,” Hank probed, leaning closer. “What is it, then?”

Connor glared at him, the barest flare of his nostrils his only tell.

Hank was about to poke him a little further when he saw a man approaching.

“Henricus!” he boomed, taking Hank’s hand and shaking it vigorously. “I’m so very pleased to see you. And your dear boy, of course.”

He shook Connor’s hand just as enthusiastically, while Connor stood there with a startled smile plastered on.

“Connor, this is Ricus Philandrus, our gracious host.”

“Yes,” said Philandrus, fixing Connor in his shrewd gaze. “But I admit I had selfish intent when I extended your invitation. I do like to see the fresh meat that comes into the market every now and again. I want to see what I’m working with.”

Hank chuckled and placed a bracing hand on Connor’s shoulder, a subtle gesture of comfort that didn’t seem lost on him. “He’s one to watch, make no mistake,” Hank reassured. “Give him a season or two and he’ll make a ruin of the rest of us.”

Pursing his lips, Philandrus nodded. “I know you’ll do your best, young man. For now, please relax and enjoy my hospitality. I must excuse myself; I have flapped my mouth so much already this evening and yet I must do so even more.”

With a quick incline of his head to Hank and Connor, Philandrus went on his way.

“He’s not what I expected. You made him sound so dreadful, Hank. I should have known you were just trying to scare me.”

Hank opened his mouth to object, to tell Connor that he’d rarely seen Philandrus in such high spirits, that the conversation had, from the perspective of someone who’d known the man for two decades, been quite bizarre, but before he could get a single word out, a shrill chime rang through the villa.

“Dinner is served!” declared a tall servant, gesturing for the guests in the room to follow.

Obediently they filed into a large room which had been converted into a banquet hall. At the center was a small garden with a fountain at its center. The ceiling gave way to open air. Stars glittered against the navy blue backdrop of the midsummer night sky. Low tables awaited the guests, already stocked with utensils and drinks.

Senator Marcus caught Hank’s attention and requested he and Connor join him at his table. There were a few other senators already seated and Hank greeted them in turn, introducing Connor as his apprentice.

It wasn’t until they were comfortable and the enormous plates of food began appearing on the table that Hank realized how awed Connor must be. He tried not to show it, but the way his eyes tracked the glittering of the platters and the succulent roast bird and veritable mountain of scallops, and his head cocking as the air around him became full of the murmuring of senators, the clinking of cups--his mouth fell open--he didn’t even know where to start with the variety of food in front of him--

He’d never experienced anything like this, at least not as a guest.

Hank was careful to ask Connor his opinion whenever he had control of the conversation. When he took food off a platter, he shared with Connor to make sure the kid didn’t feel self-conscious reaching for things.

The senators seemed to enjoy his company, especially Marcus, who was not particularly fond of old men and their stale opinions and welcomed input from another young man.

“Isn’t it terrible to be near Henricus so often?” Marcus ribbed, grinning. “He’s a grumpy old bastard. We barely tolerate him in the senate chamber as it is.”

“He’s not so grumpy all the time,” Connor conceded, but turned to look at Hank with a wicked glimmer in his eye. “Sometimes he’s asleep.”

The men erupted into laughter.

“That’s hardly what I’d call clever,” Hank retorted, rolling his eyes in Connor’s direction. “These men are all just drunk off their asses.”

There was another round of laughing and jeering, but a noticeable lack of denial.

They passed an hour, and then another, in this way, eating until their stomachs could hold no more, sharing stories and jokes, and when the last of the plates were cleared away many of the guests trickled back into the main hall for dancing and even more drinking.

Connor gently touched his shoulder. “I’ll be right back. I need to use the restroom.”

Hank nodded and watched Connor weave through the crowd towards the back of the house.

He waited, and waited, and when he’d finished another cup of wine he couldn’t help the feeling that he’d been waiting far too long and, growing worried, retraced Connor’s steps.

The restrooms for guests were kept separate from the main building, accessible down a stone path through one of Philandrus’s many gardens. But Connor was nowhere in sight, not in or near the restrooms. Hank continued further into the garden.

There were no other guests past this point, as the more public space made way for Philandrus’s private gardens, ripe and colorful with delicate blooms, and it was here that Hank heard what sounded like Connor’s voice.

He crept closer until he could hear a second voice, and then the first again.

It was definitely Connor. He was talking to someone just on the other side of an enormous rose bush. Hank was about to step around the corner and speak to him when he heard the second voice croon softly, “Now now, my boy, relax. Surely this is a service you’re accustomed to performing? If you can swallow your distaste enough to tend to that drunk, you can muster the courage to do it for your host.”

Philandrus, there was no doubt in Hank’s mind!

He peered around the corner and sure enough the older man had Connor backed against a sturdy tree trunk, and even though Connor had at least half a head on Philandrus’s height he seemed paralyzed, eyes darting this way and that in something akin to panic. One of the older man’s gnarled hands reached for Connor’s face, and he flinched when it made contact, though the touch was soft, fingers cupping Connor’s chin as his thumb stroked over his lips.

Perhaps it was the drink in his belly, perhaps it was the strange sensation curling through his blood, like fire and wisps of smoke, but Hank hesitated no further, striding out into the open.

“Are these your true motives, Philandrus?” he spat.

Philandrus didn’t even flinch. With his arm he wrenched up the hand on Connor’s chin, forcing him to raise his head even more. He barely looked behind him as he addressed Hank. “Turn around and go back to your cups, fool. I was kind enough to welcome you and your whore into my house and play pretend, but there is only so much that can be done to cover up a man’s true nature.”

“You must be speaking of yourself,” Hank growled. “I’ve known you to be an unkind man, but it seems at your core you are nothing more than a brute.”

Philandrus finally turned to face Hank fully, and he was grinning. “I’m simply taking my due, Henricus. You can dress this boy up as much as you desire, but there is only one use for a body such as his.”

Behind Philandrus’s ugly, spitting face, Hank locked eyes with Connor.

And Connor...Connor was _furious_. Eyes flashing and lip curling.

Hank nodded.

“Luckily my hands are very versatile,” Connor cut in, and when Philandrus turned back to look at him Connor’s fist rose faster than Hank could follow and smashed into the older man’s face.

He fell to the ground and grit his teeth, which were red with the blood filling his mouth. “You...you wretch!” he screeched.

But Connor wasn’t having it. He strode over to where the man was sprawled upon the grass and stood over him, looking down his nose at him with a glare so contemptuous it made the hair on the back of Hank’s neck stand up.

“I was more a man as a servant than you ever were in the whole of your miserable life.”

Hank was certain Connor was going to hit him again, but when the fight dimmed from Philandrus’s expression Connor turned his cheek and left him lying there.

“Let’s go home,” he said instead, eyes impossibly large and brown.

And home they went.

Hank was relieved that they didn’t attempt to go back through the villa, instead accessing the street from the side. They walked quickly, both equally eager to put as much space between them and the villa as possible.

“Are you alright?” Hank asked him, probably for the sixth time.

“Yes,” Connor answered, also for the sixth time. But his voice was soft and trembled just so.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left you alone, I--”

Connor shook his head. “I’m capable of looking after myself.”

“I know you are.” When Connor scoffed, Hank doubled down. “Connor, I _know_ you are. Sometimes I just forget the way that people can be. The way men can be. You’re my responsibility, professionally, and I guess I feel guilty that I couldn’t be responsible in other ways, too.” When Connor didn’t answer, Hank sighed. “Sorry, I know that still sounds like I don’t think you can handle yourself.”

Hank’s villa appeared ahead, only a few more minutes away. Thank the gods.

“I froze,” Connor suddenly confessed in a rushed whisper. “He’s a respected man and I’m nobody. I mean, right _now_ I’m nobody. It still feels new to me, being _libertus_ , being free. Suddenly people respect me, even though I don’t feel different. It’s only my circumstances that have changed. As a servant, as Cornelius, I was expected to submit and be grateful for what I got.

“I froze,” he repeated. “I became Cornelius again, and I let him touch me.”

They approached Hank’s dark front door, and he hurriedly ushered Connor inside, glad to be home.

Connor’s voice had begun to tremble again. Hank rushed to light a lamp, and when it flared to life Hank could see that Connor’s arms were dirty from being backed into the tree. Connor raised his hand to shoo Hank away but it only exposed his split knuckles.

The blood was mostly coagulated, though dried rivulets still ran from the cuts.

Hank didn’t know what had changed, but when he reached for Connor’s hand he was allowed to grasp it, softly, careful not to put any pressure on the cuts. Hank became conscious of his palms sweating, of his heart beating furiously in his chest.

Drawn as though in a daze, Hank brought Connor’s knuckles to his lips and lightly pressed them to a patch of unharmed skin.

Connor sucked in a gasp but otherwise didn’t act to pull away.

Hank’s other hand rose and clutched Connor’s wrist. “You did good,” he murmured, breath landing on Connor’s knuckles. “I’m proud of you tonight.”

He was allowed to press one more sweet kiss to Connor’s hand before Connor was dragging him upwards, and they were face to face, noses a hair’s width apart from touching. In the lamplight Connor’s deep dark eyes seemed bottomless, sucking Hank in, and it was a simple thing to allow himself to fall.

The first touch of their lips against one another’s was chaste, hesitant. Hank’s mind buzzed with conflicting feelings, of ‘what are you doing, old man?’, of the compelling chant of ‘make him yours, make him yours’, of the sweet haze that lay over him as they brushed lips again. Then Connor inhaled sharply and threw his arms around Hank’s neck and opened his mouth, and almost on accident Hank’s tongue slipped past Connor’s lips, but once it was done it couldn’t be taken back.

Hank clutched him by the hips and pulled him close. Finally, finally. All the things he’d thought from the first moment he saw Connor, the thoughts that seemed disjointed and unclear, it all weaved together in the span of that kiss and Hank realized this was what he’d wanting for so long and yet refused to put a name to.

When they broke apart at last, Connor rested his forehead against Hank’s, and his shoulders began to shake and Hank realized he was laughing.

“Hank, you have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do that.” His fingers loosened the tie on Hank’s hair and his fingers threaded idly through the strands.

“I think I do have an idea, actually,” he countered, one large hand pressing into the small of Connor’s back.

“This might be a silly request, but could I, uh, stay with you tonight?”

Hank pulled away, surprised. “You want to sleep in bed with me?”

“Yes? If that’s alright.”

He couldn’t believe it. The bed was wide enough, it wouldn’t be uncomfortable, but it was difficult even after such an indisputable display of passion to believe Connor would want to be with him, to be close to him all through the night.

“Yes, it’s, it’s more than alright,” he finally managed to say.

And it was thus that Hank found himself pressed against Connor’s thin but strong form. It was nice to feel the body heat, to have Connor’s head tucked under his chin. Connor’s arms were crossed over his own chest and Hank held him close, one large arm over his slender hip.

After the excitement of the night’s events Hank wasn’t sure if he would be able to fall asleep, but soon the comforting warmth and Connor’s light, rhythmic breaths beneath him lulled him into a deep and dreamless sleep.

\----

 


End file.
